


Boulder Opal

by brevitas



Series: Ashes to Ashes [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon AU, Fantasy AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire attends a meeting and Enjolras falls in love with the story of the bold dragon named Alsius, who led a rebellion and was put down for his beliefs (R fidgets through the entire meeting and regrets recommending the book).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boulder Opal

Grantaire has no idea what he's doing.

He's standing outside the cafe that the pamphlet has named, a newer brick building nestled on the corner of a quiet street and cozied up between a children's store and an abandoned apartment complex. It looks friendly; the doors and windows are all open and light wafts out onto it's narrow yard, reflecting on the numerous glass balls that are strewn in the grass. Some are big enough to reach Grantaire's shoulder and he assumes they're some sort of artistic statement, but he really can't fathom what they're supposed to mean.

There's a stone walkway that leads right to the front door and he eyes it, shifts from foot to foot. He's holding onto that pamphlet still, had traded his beer bottle for it before he'd left his flat, and he creases the top as he debates on walking away. They wouldn't even known he'd come, after all. He could turn around and leave and no one would be the wiser.

"You going inside?" He turns around and there's a grinning youth standing behind him, his arms supporting a large basket stuffed full of muffins. Grantaire frowns at him but before he can decide where he knows him from the man lights up.

"Oh, hey hey, you're Grantaire, right?"

Warily Grantaire nods and leans his weight forward, ready to clock the stranger if he tries anything, and thus Courfeyrac nearly gets punched in the face when he delightedly crows, "Excellent! Enjolras told us you weren't going to come, but I see you've decided to best the odds." He inclines his head towards the Musain, completely overlooking the potential violence thrumming in Grantaire's pose, and says cheerfully, "I'll walk you in."

Now Grantaire has no options but to pocket his hands and nod, and trails after Courfeyrac as he forges a path to the cafe. He steps through the open door with a breezy, "Look who decided to join us," and eight heads immediately pop up in surprise.

He has no trouble locating Enjolras, who sits in the middle of the room and commands the table he's heading. He was bowed over a few papers with a friend but he sits up at Courfeyrac's announcement and does a double-take when he sees it's Grantaire.

"Welcome," he says, but does not rise. The man at his left thoughtfully pushes his glasses further up his nose as he studies Grantaire. "You're a little late."

"Sorry," Grantaire replies dryly. "I didn't realize there would be a penalty for tardiness."

A blonde in the corner with flowers in his hair giggles, and Enjolras sighs. Grantaire is liable to believe that his mouth had twitched with a smile for at least a fraction of a second but his glower now no longer seems to confirm that. "Come." He gestures to an empty seat next to a broad-shouldered boxer-type who's inspecting his bruised knuckles. "Take a seat."

So Grantaire does, and regrets not bringing any alcohol five minutes in (what was he thinking anyway? Trying to impress these people sounds foolish now--he doesn't even know them), so he busies his restless fingers with folding the pamphlets Courfeyrac hands him. He's introduced to everybody and then the actual meeting gets underway.

Enjolras starts by saying that he read a new book, and looks at Grantaire when he says it so he takes it to mean the one he had recommended. Surely enough, it is.

"It was a historical recount of the Great Dragon Revolution, one that happened a hundred and three years ago," he begins, and Grantaire notices how each of the Amis look at him; with respect, with devotion, with affection. He folds more pamphlets to busy himself and doesn't dare look up.

"It was led by a young female dragon called Virida, named after her green color, and succeeded as long as it did only due to her companion, Alsius." He says the name gently, like he might pronounce the moniker of a lover, and Grantaire's stomach tightens. He gestures for more papers from Courfeyrac and distractedly he pushes another pile at him, still focused solely on their leader. "Alsius was a large male and was renowned for his skill at flight and war; they called him The Camouflaged Killer for his scales were such an exact shade of blue that on clear days he was nearly invisible."

Enjolras begins to pace, gesturing broadly with his hands as he speaks. "He was of the utmost importance to the revolt; it was Virida who led it but Alsius who protected their ranks and guaranteed their safety. They both believed wholeheartedly in their cause--to free Vesper from our dictator."

An excited hum overtakes the group and Enjolras waits for it to quiet before he continues. "They wished to fly to Vesper and help our people but the Mundite government disagreed; they forbid the dragons and said that it would be too dangerous, and that they could not waste their lives on such a foolish endeavor. The dragons said they would do it whether they were permitted to or not and that is when the Mundites came together to discuss their options.

"They could allow the dragons to go but this would give us a feeling of equality; if the dragons willingly came here then we would have nothing to be envious of. In the end, they agreed that the only course of action was to extinguish the revolution before we heard of it and make the strongest a martyr.

"For this they conscripted their most loyal dragons, those that were blinded by love for their riders and would do anything asked of them. They told these warriors to ambush and kill Virida and her seven followers on their flight to see the president and hear his decision, and made it clear that Alsius must be spared. The rebels had no idea what was coming, and for this they suffered greatly."

Grantaire's hands are shaking and he feels sick; he folds methodically now, anything to give him an excuse to keep his eyes down, anything to convince him that getting up and fleeing now would do nothing but rouse suspicion. He swallows, and Enjolras glances momentarily at him before speaking again.

"Alsius did his best to protect them, and was nearly killed for his efforts. By the time all were dead he was so badly wounded that he could not fly and the assassins had to _carry_ him to the capital, this great and beautiful dragon." There is real passion in his voice now, the words warmed by righteous anger. "They brought him before the president and hobbled him, scored his back with injuries so grievous that he would never be able to fly like he once used to.

"When he was secured and helpless the president told him that he was to not speak of this again, and commanded him to soothe those that would try to organize. He informed Alsius that if he did not comply he would take off his wings entirely and he would never fly again, and brave Alsius, who loved flight with his entirety, could do nothing but concede."

He clenches his fists as he walks back and forth across the room, stewing with anger over a crime that had occurred over a century ago. "The Mundites let no a word leak of this; any witnesses were silenced, and Alsius was condemned to be the president's lapdog, where he had a constant guard. When the dragons disappeared so too did he, but not before personally lighting the capital on fire."

Everyone knows this story, and the Vespers love to tell it; when the army marched on the capital of Mundi, Coronam was already burning. The people had long since fled so no lives were lost but when they'd returned months later Coronam wore a new face. The beauty of the city never fully healed from the fire, and even now there are hints of where flames had ravaged.

"We need to tell this story," Combeferre says decidedly, and Enjolras nods. "Perhaps Jehan could write a condensed version we could pass out, and Feuilly can do the art."

Feuilly turns at his name and shakes his head. "I'm not sure I'll be able to for a few days at least; I'm picking up double shifts at work." Sometimes when he came home his hands would be so stiff that he wouldn't even be capable of opening his door, letting alone holding a pencil.

"Does anybody know someone who paints?" Combeferre asks, as apparently Enjolras cannot wait a few days. He's still pacing, practically on fire himself.

Grantaire does not volunteer his skills, and would have been able to slide right by had Enjolras not looked directly at him and asked, "Do you, Grantaire?" There is power in this blonde; even Grantaire, who at his biggest size is comparable to an underfed African elephant, sees it.

He doesn't even have a moment to consider lying before he says, "I can," and then frowns when the Amis slap him on the back and jostle him in their enthusiasm. Enjolras is smiling at him, and he really can't seem to regret agreeing to this (despite his aforementioned rule of never getting close to humans he'll be liable to see again, and especially those obsessed with the old dragon tales).

"Come to my flat tomorrow and we can discuss ideas," Enjolras tells him, and writes his address down on a sheet of paper. He passes it to Grantaire, who pockets it and stays for the brainstorming.

Before he leaves, nearly three hours later, he tells Enjolras that he'll bring a few preliminary sketches for him to look over. Enjolras smiles again and Grantaire no longer wonders how he has so many followers.

+++++

When he sleeps he's haunted by nightmares, so for the most part Grantaire tries not to sleep. He'll go on week-long binges sometimes, where he's so pumped full of alcohol and shitty food that sleep would be impossible even if he tried, and when his body finally can't take anymore and he passes out it's dreamless.

He stays up all night drinking, and spends the morning getting sober. By noon he's taking the stairs up to Enjolras' apartment and he barely feels hungover at all.

He has his sketchbook under one arm and drew a few memories; the way Virida had stood when she was happy, with her head tossed back and her narrow shoulders forward, and he'd become so entranced with the piece that by the time he'd finished he was able to picture what sort of human she might have resembled. Some of their followers are nestled within the pages too, the short brute named Imbris who had a temper to match the name; a female with an ugly scar across her snout who looked to be perpetually smiling.

He lifts a hand to knock and is interrupted by the door opening. Enjolras ushers him in and Grantaire looks conspicuously around, too used to betrayers to be subtle. Enjolras makes no remark on his blatant wariness, and merely sits at the kitchen table and waits for Grantaire to take the chair across from him.

"Here," he says, offering up his sketchbook. "I drew a few based on the descriptions in the book."

Enjolras flips through it; some of the pages are smeared with colors, to demonstrate what it might look like shaded. He's frowning when he reaches the end and looks intently at Grantaire. "You didn't draw Alsius."

"I don't think he should be the focus of the story," Grantaire answers, and Enjolras' frown ticks lower.

"He is the focus of the story. He's the only reason they got as far as they did."

Grantaire folds his arms across his chest. "Virida was their leader; she should be the one we talk about."

"But Alsius was the one who spoke out the loudest." Enjolras opens to an empty page and hands him the sketchbook back. "I think he would be a better model."

Grantaire takes it, and tugs his pencil out from behind his ear. "Fine," he grumbles, and sets the lead tip to the page. "I'll sketch Alsius."

And he does, though as the illustration takes shape Enjolras' expression becomes darker and harder to read. Grantaire strengthens the slope of the dragon's back and the dangerously sharp spikes that edges it, gives definition to how his wings are slack and useless, to the ruined flesh between his shoulders.

It's how he looked right after, when he'd been so sick with fever and infection that he couldn't even walk. It's poignant and ugly and it's exactly how Grantaire sees himself, not as the victor that Enjolras wants but as the destroyed shell of the believer he'd once been.

"Here," he says sourly when he finishes, pushes the notebook back at Enjolras. "Alsius."

Grantaire is expecting a fight--he's expecting Enjolras to drive him out of his flat and yell after him that he's never welcome back. It's obvious in the way he's sitting now, with his muscles tense and his fingers clenching the edge of the table, waiting for a fight.

What he gets instead is Enjolras nodding thoughtfully while he looks it over, noticing the absurd amount of detail in the furrows that wound him. "This is good," he says, looking up. "If you could line it and ink it that would be perfect."

Grantaire blinks at him, loosens his grip on the wood. "...you _like_ it?"

"Certainly." Enjolras smiles at him, bemused. "It's realistic; it depicts the underdog, and that's exactly what Vesper has always been. We're wounded but we will always have the potential to fly."

Grantaire snorts and gets up, collects his sketchbook. "I'll bring it to the next meeting," he says as he leaves, and when he gets home he sits on his bed and sheds his shirt.

Dragons have always been magic but they are not gods, and looking human is an imperfect art; in some places his old form shines through, and he absentmindedly strokes the rough patch of ice blue scales that sit like hands on his hipbones. While he goes over the picture in finer ink his elbows brush the scales and he thinks about what Enjolras said about wounded underdogs, and the mess of scars between his shoulder blades itch.

**Author's Note:**

> ugh sorry about the lag between stories, my laptop is on the fritz and making writing an absolute pain  
> however! here is an update to ATA, and I'll be doing LOTM next, so the other two are on the backburner as of now (sorry to any fans out there)
> 
> so notes on this story;  
> yes the dragons have patches of scales on their bodies and each dragon is different; so Grantaire has some scales on his hipbones (and elsewhere) but another dragon might be unable to go out into public because they have a patch on their face, or a different individual could have a giant swathe on their back or some shit
> 
> no other notes besides that one I guess
> 
> the title is actually specific for once; Boulder Opal is an incredibly ugly gemstone but has veins of this absolutely gorgeous blue running through it, so I liked it for a Grantaire metaphor (seriously google this shit, it's stunning)
> 
> and kisses to all ya'll you people are the best!


End file.
